


Tapestry

by Carbon65



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Apartments, Bahorel is a postdoc, Blood, Cracking the Fourth Wall, Diabetic Character, F/F, F/M, Graduate School, IKEA Furniture, Laundry, M/M, Minor Injuries, Multi, New Year's Eve, Tap Dancing, Trapped In Elevator, alcohol use, and you can FIGHT ME ON THIS, gratuitous media mentions, i dont know what happened, meet cute?, musicals? musicals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-10 00:23:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12900015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carbon65/pseuds/Carbon65
Summary: They're really not sure how they ended up with such awesome neighbors (except for Joly and Bossuet, who totally recruited their girlfriend to move in next door). But, it turns out they're all kind of amazing.Or, how the Amis ended up living together and celebrating their first New Years as friends.





	1. Warp

**Author's Note:**

  * For [C-chan (1001paperboxes)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/1001paperboxes/gifts).



> For the prompt,
> 
> _Give me the Amis all living together. Whether it's the same apartment and they're all tenants, or a house that they've all moved into together intentionally, or anything else. How do they make it work? How do they all get along? Are there weekly dinner nights when they all eat together? Do they have some sort of great holiday hullaballoo?_
> 
> _Or, give me a reincarnation AU, and them all trying to find each other._
> 
> _Or another AU, where they all work togther or go to school together or are a space-faring crew or the 59th Super Setai or anything. Just give me an awesome ensemble piece._
> 
>  _Bonus points for them all being in a giant QP cuddlepile (or romantic poly cuddlepile). Otherwise, gen or pairings mentioned in my other requests, please. :) (And yes, throwing in a couple of the girls, and Marius, is entirely welcome.)_  
> 
> So, Im not sure whether or not grad school is an awesome AU, but they all get together, eventually.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finding a new apartment and then moving in can be hard.

**Warp thread** : This is the thread that is strung over the loom vertically, and holds the tension while you weave.

[The Weaving Loom, basic terminology](http://www.theweavingloom.com/what-does-warp-mean-basic-weaving-terminology/)

* * *

“We have a twenty-four hour gym, volleyball courts, and a pool. Every third Wednesday, we put out pizza, so you can get to know your neighbors.” The rental agent prattles on, describing the amenities of the overly expensive apartment building.

Sophia Combeferre catches her best friend, Alexandre Enjolras shooting her an “Are you serious?” look. She tries not to roll her eyes. She also bit her lip, waiting for a lull in the litany.

“Could you, you know, actually show us an apartment.” Enjolras voices the thoughts filling Combeferre’s head. He is brash where she is more circumspect. When they discuss it, which they do because they need _something_ to talk about when they go out for drinks, they both tend to attribute it the differences in gender-based socialization and internalized misogyny. (Of course, they also discuss politics, global warming, activism, literature, and Yuri on Ice.) 

The apartments are disappointing: four cinder block walls garishly christened in the school colors and furnished with a sturdy bed, desk, wardrobe. The setup reminds her of a dorm room. Furthermore, the building has a policy that you can’t rent out a room alone. If you don’t show up with someone, they would _assign_ you a roommate. And, if they get a three bedroom, then a third person will placed with them. And, because they are adults, and this is a binding contract, there will be a penalty for breaking the lease early. And, of course, deciding to move rooms or apartments is in the description of "breaking the lease early", spelled out in tiny black and white print. The whole building reminds her of an off campus residence hall, for students who have been turned out of the dorms too early.

This is not something Combeferre needs. Toward the end of her sophomore year, she’d had a very… eye opening conversation with the director of Res Life and her dorm’s rector. They’d suggested that there were two kinds of people at the school: those who should live on campus and those who should consider alternate housing options when they returned from their semester at McGill, and she should really consider which she was. 

And then there was Enjolras to consider. Enjolras was… well, there was no way to explain it other than that he _hadn’t_ had that lovely discussion with ResLife, he’d just been kicked off campus during his freshman year and told to “go live with a relative in town”. It hadn’t mattered that all the Enjolrases in the country lived something like four states and a province away because the youngest scion of the family was in a rebellious phase. Or something.

They did not move into that building.

* * *

Éponine Thenardier swallows against a dry throat, praying it will calm the terrified butterflies in her stomach. She watches the ink dries on her lease. She can almost envision the money for the deposit and the first and last month’s rent flying out of her bank account. She has some savings, she has her job. But, she doesn’t think it will matter how much money she has, she will always be afraid. 

But, this place - this new place - is a way to start over. She needs a fresh start: she, Gav, and Azelma. They’ve run as far as she thinks they can run safely. She imagines if they keep running, they’ll run off the edge of the world, and into that land of dragons. Not that Éponine is particularly whimsical. She had the whimsy beaten out of her long ago. But, she likes old maps. As things got bad, she’d hide out after school at the public library. Her favorite study caroll was next to the cartography section, and, well, they were something pretty.

Éponine forces herself to give her tight lipped smile as the leasing agent hands over her new keys: a front door key that will also open the laundry room, a key to the apartment, and her mail key. He reminds her about the lockout fee: $50 per incidence. She feels a shudder go through her body. She doesn’t have $50 to be locked out. 

She leaves the leasing office in a fog, trying to figure out her next steps. This isn’t her first apartment on her own. This isn’t the first time she’s moved. Hell, she left her parents when she was 14, running away with $300 she’d stolen from her father’s sock drawer, two pairs of underwear, and her algebra textbook. Now… now, she’s an adult and she’s not sure if she’s stopped running, or has just gotten better at it.

She finds herself sitting in the middle of her sunny two bedroom apartment. Just sitting on the freshly cleaned carpet, her bag by her side. The blinds are open, and light rushes in. And, like a cat, she sits in the patch of sunlight. This place… this place is _hers_. This place is for her, and Gavroche, and Azelma. She hopes they can make those Pinterest-Perfect happy memories here. Or at least, make happy memories that don’t suck.

Then, the sun shifts, and reality comes crashing back down.

* * *

> `rent semi-furnished rm in shared 3 bdrm near uni.`  
>  `must like bongo drums and byron.`  
>  `$500/mo + utilities.`  
>  `e: jprouvaire@corinthe.edu`  
> 

Tomek Feuilly reads the add three times before carefully tearing it out of the student newspaper. He’s not sure whether or not it’s a joke. Classified ads aren’t really a thing anymore, are they? Everyone advertises on Craigslist. Or via flyers posted around campus. Or on Facebook. It has to be a joke. It’s worth trying, though, for $500 a month “near” the university. Feuilly pulls out his cranky laptop and sends an email. 

The advertisement does not appear to be a joke. Jehan Prouvaire – apparently that’s their name, or their nickname, or their something – sends a bio and scads of pictures and a link to their tumblr. Jehan has this whole weird aesthetic – half 1950s black turtlenecks and berets, half calf high boots and tuberculosis roses, half bright, bubble gum animation and cartoon cats. Jehan’s tumblr has _a lot_ of aesthetic.

They meet for coffee at one of the independent coffee carts around campus. The little carts and the baristas of buildings are always busy. Feuilly weighs the change in his pocket against the comfort of a cup of coffee. He needs to get through to the end of the month, when he’ll get paid. He needs to be able to put down a security deposit, possibly buy furniture, maybe pay some fees. His department promised him money, but he’s already spent so much: international applications, visas, the plane ticket… 

He scans the crowd, instead. Jehan is immediately recognizable. They are dressed in an eclectic collection of clothes that somehow manage to hint at long gone eras without actually making it clear what they’re nostalgic about. But, really, it’s the black beret that does it for Feuilly. He heads over, and offers a hand.

“Hi, are you Jehan?” He’s hoping he pronounced it the way Jehan pronounces it. (It’s less about “right” in this country, and more about how everyone else pronounces it.)

“Tom?” Jehan asks.

“Call me Tomek.” He slides into the offered seat, and hopefully the kind of interaction where he won’t regret giving his full name. “So, uhh…”

“Tell me about yourself,” Jehan prompts. “I know you’re looking for a house, but like…”

So, Feuilly explains. He’s a new graduate student in the computer science program. That he came over from Poland to do his PhD. He doesn’t mention how hard it is to be an ocean and several time zones away from home, or how much he misses his Auntie’s voice. That isn’t new roommate conversation. 

Jehan is in the second year of an MFA. Feuilly isn’t sure what that stands for, American English seems to be communicated in a barrage of letters that everyone _else_ can ascribe meaning to. It seems to involve a lot of reading and writing, and more writing. 

About half an hour into the meeting, a short, muscular man arrives. He’s got a piercing scar by this eyebrow, cauliflower ears, excellent eyeliner, and a disarmingly brilliant smile. “I’m Bahorel. Sorry… the bus - the 110, the bus was late. And there were -- wait, are you Feuilly?”

He nods, dumbfounded.

“Good.” Bahorel plops on the bench. “I’ve got the other room. It’s a pretty sweet apartment.” 

Apparently Bahorel is a post doc. But, Bahorel doesn’t want to be a professor. Or go into Industry. “Cause, you know, management sucks, man. And, like, have you met a PI? Super unhappy, super stressed. Professors, and dentists, unhappy people. I want to know how to defeat professors. Eat their hearts. Learn their secret powers.” 

Feuilly manages to determine that in addition to being a good kind of crazy, Bahorel is on his third postdoc, and absolutely brilliant at whatever he does. 

It’s weird, but as they start talking more, Feuilly finds he likes the others. They have complimentary tastes in music, in food, and in TV and movies. And, somehow, the discussion turns to social issues. Which… Feuilly is passionate about. It's something his Aunt warned him about discussing openly outside of Poland, though. Deportation is a threat, even if the immigration laws don't seem directly targeted at him, here. There are plenty of issues with Polish immigration elsewhere in the world. Just because he's smart and well educated and in this country to get continue his education doesn't mean that he won't be a target tomorrow. 

But, Jehan and Bahorel seem safe. They're the ones who bring up the topics, putting voice to many of his own opinions. Most of these things are non-negotiable are non negotiable for Feuilly, and it can be hard to guess with people, sometimes. He feels so comfortable with Jehan and Bahorel, he doesn't realize how long they've been talking. He excuses himself quickly. If he doesn’t hurry, he’ll be late for a mandatory departmental seminar.

That night, he gets a text from an unknown number.

> 18:52 **Jehan:** This is Jehan.
> 
> 18:52 **Jehan:** Bahorel and I think you’d make a great addition to our little Diodati.
> 
> 19:03 **Jehan:** Let us know if you want to see the place.

* * *

“Yo, ‘Chetta, where do you want the toilet paper?” Thomas Courfeyrac, a law school friend of Musichetta’s boyfriend, Bossuet, hefts a 64 roll package from somewhere. Chetta thinks her roommate, bought it. One tenet of Grantaire’s life philosophy is that you can never have too much toilet paper.

“Umm… the bathroom?” She guesses. “Wait, Courf, why are you moving the toilet paper, and not, say, a box of books?”

He sticks his head into the doorway of her room. “Because, my dear, you have way too many boxes of books and I needed a break.” 

Joly, Musichetta’s other boyfriend, shakes his head. “No such thing as too many books.” He pulls himself up using one of the numerous bookshelves lining her wall, and picks up his cane which is leaning against another. (The bookshelves were acquired from both big box stores, thrift stores, and possibly stolen from sidewalks on trash day. Bossuet, Grantaire, and Musichetta had moved them in first, even before the beds.) “Chetta, you might have too many books.”

“Look, I know the optimum cat number varies between zero,” Chetta nods at Joly, who looks sheepish, “The number of cats currently in the house, plus one,” she waves a hand in Bossuet’s direction, somewhere outside of their room, “and one, plus the number of humans with a maximum of five cats before any family becomes crazy cat people.” 

“I want to be a crazy cat lady,” Grantaire’s voice floats out from the kitchen. She is the apartment’s other resident and one of Musichetta’s best friends from… God, Musichetta doesn’t know how long she’s known R. Long enough that she knows where that nickname comes from, and thinks Grantaire is a punning little shit for still using it. Long enough that she remembers when R was an open idealist with her heart on her sleeve, instead of whoever she is, now.

Muschetta shakes her head, unpacking. “You’re already a crazy book lady. I swear, half this collection is yours. Don’t get me wrong, I like Mary Shelley as much as the next girl, but you’ve also got obscure early christian philosophers, the entire Orphan Train series, and a dutch-english dictionary. And, Taire, I know you don’t read dutch.”

R’s voice gets closer. “Yes… but there are some very pretty girls and boys who do.” 

Musichetta rolls her eyes, and she lets Joly go back to handling her book, well, not problem. Because it’s not a problem to own a small library, just to move one. And, she and Grantaire have had help with their move, more than she expected. There’s herself, and R, of course. They’d packed up their old place, R paying a surprising amount of care to the kitchen for a woman who, as far as Musichetta could tell, survived on bagged salad, Lean Cuisine, beer, and carry out. But, half of their kitchen stuff and come from R’s Bubbe when they’d moved Mrs. Goldman into a nursing home after her stroke. They’d bribed Bossuet; R’s friend, Bahorel; and U-Haul to help them move their furniture. (Musichetta still isn’t sure how people move across the country in those trucks. She wouldn't rent the one she drove to Satan.) And now, they have Courf and Joly to help them unpack. And, thanks to all the ministrations, the place is starting to feel like home.

Of course, the apartment building had felt like home long before the two of them had decided to move in. Joly had been the first to rent a studio here, close to the University’s hospital campus. It’s convenient both for his work as a medical intern, and for his frequent doctor’s appointments. Bossuet had followed soon thereafter, met at a late night party with a friend of a friend. Musichetta has never really gotten the full story out of either of them, and she’s not entirely sure they remember. Bossuet has the worst luck imaginable in everything but love, and so when he got kicked out of his apartment due to some freak accident involving a water main, a raccoon, and a hot tub, he went to crash with Joly until he found a new place. And then, he just… stayed.

Musichetta also isn’t sure how R fell in with Joly and Bossuet. Possibly through the hulking and delightful Bahorel. R and Bahorel seem to know almost everyone in and around the University, if not the city. R is a social butterfly and she seems to gain strength from spending time with people. So, somehow, she mrt Bossuet, and then Joly. (Musichetta suspects alcohol was involved, knowing R. R has… well, _she_ wouldn’t call it a problem, but R took exactly enough chemistry to learn that alcohol was a solution, and stuck with that logic.) One thing with R invariable lead to another, and Musichetta had comfortably joined Bossuet and Joly’s relationship as an equal third partner. 

After their relationship had started, when they were getting serious enough to introduce the others to their friends and their parents (if not fully admit what was going on), the three had talked about moving in together. But, Musichetta likes her space (for now). And, she’s not ready to leave R alone. It’s not that she doesn’t trust R alone, but she also knows that R’s rent is paid in part, by money from her Bubbe. Money that’s currently held in trust by R’s parents, who want her living with another woman. To preserve her purity, or some other brand of patriarchal bullshit. Which, you know, totally makes sense given that R is openly bisexual. Nevertheless, Musichetta is happy to be in the same building, if not the same apartment as her boyfriends.

“Chetta, penny for your thoughts?” Joly interrupts her musing.

She leans over and kisses him on his cheek. “Just happy to be here.”

* * *

Cosette Fauchelevent wanders listlessly through a dystopian wasteland where furniture has names and can be assembled with a hex wrench. Marius, her - well, she isn’t quite sure what Marius is, yet - Marius, her Marius is looking around increasingly confused. He stared at the 500 ft2 house for a good ten minutes, before turning to her and asking, “Why were they allowed to paint the walls and we’re not?”

She loves Marius. She might even be in love with Marius, although that’s a discussion for a setting without 80 types book cases, all of which she can conveniently fit in the back of her Carolla. She certainly likes Marius as at least a friend, if not more. She wouldn’t mind if they ended up as more, but Marius would be her First Real Relationship™. Given how overprotective her father has been, she’s slightly surprised he lets her out with Marius at all. Of course, her Papa seems to know that the Thing with Marius is still slightly confusing. Particularly because Marius might have a Thing with his roommate. ...And a part of Cosette that doesn’t want to admit it might not mind a Thing with Courfeyrac, either. Or, Marius might not be into Things at all. Marius is hard to read, and Cosette worries she might be too old to learn.

Still, she’s trying, so here they are.

Marius has made his way through the bedroom section, looking slightly baffled as he writes down names, identifiers, and box numbers on a little slip of paper. Cosette, who has been through this before with her Papa, discretely takes pictures of the tags in Marius’ wake. Courfeyrac circles around the two of them, a whirlwind of efficiently testing the comfort of all seating. At least his magenta hair makes him easy to find.

Cosette comes around to find Marius studying the desks, looking like he’s trying to solve an impossible problem. “Which do you think I should get?” His voice is a low, almost vulnerable whisper.

She keeps her tone even and gentle. “Which one do you want?” 

He stares at the desks, like a deer in the headlights. Like he’s searching for the right answer to a question in school where there is no right answer. Marius tends to do this, and it breaks Cosette’s heart a little bit.

“Do you like to study at a desk?” Courfeyrac appears behind them like magic. Cosette isn’t sure he likes him appearing behind her like magic. She doesn’t like the random appearance of men. “Me, I get a desk so I can pile all my shit on it, stacks and stacks of papers. Enjy, my old roommate, have I introduced you to Enjy, Marius? Well, he called it the pile method.”

“...But you have to have a desk to study.” Marius’ voice holds a quaiver, and the tone of someone reciting something from rote. Cosette can’t hear the words he mutters next, but she knows what they are: “It’s the rules.”

She wants to punch whoever taught Marius his rules.

Courfeyrac gives her a look that might be asking, _time to leave?_ but might also might be saying, _time to explain?_.

She shakes her head, ever so slightly. Let Marius buy a desk, if he thinks he needs one. This is his first time living away from home, and Marius needs to figure out who he is when he’s not there. Cosette worries it will be a hard process. She remembers, and she doesn’t want to remember. It’s like a cloud blotting out the sun.

In the end, they leave with a desk for Marius. Also a bed. And a supports. And a mattress. And a bedside table. And candles. And far too many meatballs for any sane human to consume. At least that will fuel the next step: assembling the furniture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feuilly is somewhat inspired by friend/coworker T, who continues to have the best description of why Poland has socialized medicine. (“We converted to capitalism in 1989. ... We kept socialized medicine. We’re not savages.”)
> 
> Also, the apartment breakdown:  
> 3B -- Joly and Bossuet (studio)  
> 3C -- Musichetta & Grantaire (2 bedroom)  
> 3D -- Enjolras and Combeferre (2 bedroom)  
> 4A -- Jehan, Feuilly and Bahorel (3 bedroom)  
> 5A -- Eponine, Azelma, Gavroche (3 bedroom)  
> 5D -- Courferyac and Marius (Cosette) (2 bedroom)


	2. Weft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's strange the little ways we end up in other people's lives.

**Weft** : The thread that you weave between the warp threads, creating your patterns and structure in the weave.

[The Weaving Loom, basic terminology](http://www.theweavingloom.com/what-does-warp-mean-basic-weaving-terminology/)

* * *

Oh, fuck.

Rebecca Grantaire fishes in her bag for her keys, bloodless fingers struggling to tell the difference between sharpie, pocket knife, lighter, and vape pen. And… where the fuck are her keys. She has them. She knows she has them. She was playing with them in Bahorel car as he drove her home from boxing practice. She used them to open the front gate to their building. So, she has to have them. Somewhere.

Her phone lets of an alarming trill, and she responds with a volley of cursing. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Her frantic search in her bag moves from keys to food. She’s supposed to carry sugar with her. She knows she’s supposed to carry sugar with her. But, between her three jobs and Bahorel offering to go spar, she’s been busy.

So, now, she’s fumbling with her bag for both her phone and her keys. Which have vanished into thin air. She has a tampon, if anyone needs one; a make-up brush; the empty husk of a cheap ballpoint pen, ink long since removed.

R fumbles her way to the place where the concrete stairs of the lobby meet the cold concrete wall. She’s not sure if she falls, or manages to settle gracefully, leaning into COLD and HARD. COLD and HARD are good. They’re solid. Right now, solid is good.

Solid like Bahorel. …Why the fuck didn’t she stay with Bahorel and go get food? 

Oh, right, because Bahorel had a time point in fifteen minutes, he even though he claims he'll be a post doc forever due to a combination a bad job market and his own lack of ambition, he still has to finish some of his experiments. One night, when they'd been at a bar and someone tried to get in a pissing contest with him, Bahorel had whipped out his academic credentials. The assistant professor in question had looked so sick when he'd seen Bahorel's ... junk that he'd back away. R prefered it when Bahorel pulled out his metaphorical dick than his actual one. They were far less likely to get arrested. She likes it better when they don't get arrested.

She leans into the COLD and HARD and SOLID so it stabilizes her, and squeezes her eyes shut in a prayer to G-d who she’s never sure exists that somehow she can find her keys, get her mail and make it up to her damn apartment. Then, she starts the careful work of attempting to locate the keys and phone that have to be somewhere on her person.

“...These yours?” The voice breaks into a panic so strong she’s about to pull her boxing clothes out of her bag. No one wants her to pull out her boxing clothes in the lobby.

“What?” She stammers, the word tasting strange in her mouth.

A girl with dark eyes and jet black hair holds up a familiar key ring. “Are these yours?”

“Yes,” she sighs. She makes a move to stand. “Those are my-”

“Are you okay?” Dark eyes interrupts her. “I’ve seen you before - 3C, right?”

Grantaire nods, the world swimming a little bit. 

Dark Eyes doesn’t seem to care. “It’s just, you don’t look so good. Do you want…?”

“I just need to get my home and go fine. Im mail.” R manages to get out all the words she wants.

Dark Eyes looks dubious. “Look, I’m in 3D.” She holds up a key. “I’ll walk up with you.”

R is too… R is just too… R is much of too many things to argue right now, so she takes her keys from 3D, who may be her neighbor and may be a serial killer, and R doesn't cares. She gets her damn mail. Because she’s a damn adult.

She assumes 3D gets her mail too, because she has this big white envelope in her hand as they ride up in the elevator together. In R’s distorted vision, the envelope seems to glow. Her neighbor seems to think so as well, because she gives it a half smile. R’s neighbor, if she really lives in 3D and isn’t lying, has a cute smile.

They get up to the third floor, and the door dings open.

“Nice to meet--,” R starts.”

“I’m Sophia,” 3D interrupts, sticking out her hand. 

Social convention takes over, and her trembling hand seems to rise on its own. Sophia has a firm handshake. “R. Nice to meet you.”

She might have said something else, too, but maybe she just thought it. At least, that’s her fervent hope as she lays on the bed, waiting for her blood sugar to come up.

* * *

Alexandre Enjolras stares dejectedly into his underwear drawer. If he does not do laundry tonight, he will be out of clean underwear. He looks at the other drawers, the hangers, the overflowing laundry hamper in his closet. Every piece of clothing he owns, other than his board shorts; the dry-clean only suit he has for conferences and defending his dissertation; three silk ties (one his grandfather’s); and a depressingly lonely moth eaten sock is dirty. Plus… if he tries to convince Combeferre to lend him clean sheets again, she may forgo her hippocratic oath and strangle him. Probably with the steadily accumulating pile of her sheets. So, if Enjolras wants any semblance of normality and hygiene, he needs to do the dreaded task he’s been avoiding for weeks: laundry.

It’s not like laundry is that inconvenient. There’s a room in the basement of the apartment build for the express purpose of washing clothes. It’s clean reasonably well lit: it’s really not that bad. Enjolras doesn’t have to pack his things and take garbage bags of dirty clothes down to the laundromat on public transit. Except, he thinks maybe all those years of balancing three loads of laundry, a bodega coffee, anti-capitalistic ideals, and social anxiety lead to a chronic case of laundry avoidance.

But, really, it’s past time.

That evening, he finds himself standing in the laundry room, baffled by the wall of white machines. There are five washers and five dryers, and a wooden table in the corner. This is all standard. His laundromat always had a coin exchange machine and a place to buy very expensive detergent, but he’d consulted with Combeferre beforehand. Combeferre had gently reassured him that he could do this, and calmly helped him find his soap. Two rolls of quarters weigh heavy in the pockets of the suit pants he wears when he goes to conferences. (And, apparently when he does laundry.) No, the thing that is confusing Enjolras is that three of the machines are running. He understands that, in theory, everyone in the building needs to wash their clothes. He’s just not sure he understands why the theoretical washing needs to be done _now_.

He looks down at his pile of laundry with a sigh. He has at least five loads, and that assumes he’s willing to combine his towels and shirts. (He’s not sure he is. For someone who does not do laundry frequently, he has Opinions.)  
He could come back… but, no, if he waits… He cannot wait.  
So, Enjolras goes forth to face his nemesis. 

Halfway through putting detergent in the second washer, a redhead comes in with an empty basket.

“You do not want that machine.” Enjolras looks up at the voice, accented with an Eastern European accent he can’t quite place. It’s so different from the North American flatness he has when he speaks English. 

“You don’t want that machine,” the redhead repeats. “It will eat your money.”

“Thanks.” Enjolras tries to pull his already semi-soapy clothes awkwardly back out of the washer.

“You’re welcome.” The redhead lifts his pile of wet clothes out of the machine, deftly catching a sock before it can fall on the floor. He wipes his hand on his sweats. “I’m Feuilly.”

“Enjolras.” He wipes his hand on the dirty clothes, and then transfers them into Feuilly vacated machine. 

They continue to work quietly for a bit, before Enjolras can’t avoid the thoughts that are threatening to bubble over. “Have you thought about how expensive laundry is? And, like, how the way we wash our clothes is an example of the high cost of poverty?”

Feuilly nods. “It’s way cheaper when you have a machine in your apartment.” He thinks longingly of his apartment in Krakow. “And, you don’t have to be there.”

“Exactly!” Enjolras jiggles the quarters in his pocket. “You pay for water, and for the machine, but you can go out. To the store or whatever.” He surveys the room. “And, no one else gets… frustrated, gets frustrated if you don’t come get your laundry.”

Feuilly looks briefly guilty.

“Not your fault,” Enjolras amends quickly. He can be an asshole, but at least he’s sort of self aware. Sometimes. Then, he turns back to his point. “And here, you pay for the privilege of using the machine, but at least you can come and go.”

Somehow, the discussion expands into the cost of poverty, the cost of American healthcare, CHIP, the cost of the tax plan…

Enjolras was surprised to discover he was enjoying himself, as he transferred his wet clothes to Feuilly empty dryer. Feuilly was gathering up his toasty, dry laundry. 

“It was nice to meet you.” He sticks out his hand.

“Nice to meet you, too.” Enjolras offers back. “I’m umm, I’m up in 3C. And, umm… would you want to get coffee sometime, and talk more, umm, about Poland and the fall of the soviet union?”

Enjolras can feel his cheeks flushing. He hates how easily he blushes, and how it makes him look “pretty”. 

Feuilly feels in his pockets, finds his phone, and offers it. “I’d like that. Put your number in?”

* * *

“Can you hold the door?” Cosette rushes into the building, arms full with fake fur and cotton batting. She has a project, and she doesn’t want to wait.

She’s moved her sewing machine over to Marius’ apartment only a few weeks ago, yet another item in the slow processing of moving out of her father’s house and in with her boyfriend. Given that Cosette has never lived anywhere else… well, she had Before, but Before is something they don't talk about. Ever. Before is something that lives in nightmares. Given how close she is with her Papa, the process of leaving home needs to be undertaken at a snail’s pace, for both her sake and his.

But, as Courf had pointed out, she needed a place that was not her bedroom to work. For a man who never walks when he can hop, skip, jump, or leap, Courfeyrac is weirdly focused about studying and space. He has a desk in his bedroom, which he basically uses as a surface for his “pile-based filing system”. He does most of his studying in a specially reserved office in the library, because he has trouble focusing other places. She can understand. She once tried to watch TV with him, and… never again. Comedy was fine, but more than one episode of his beloved _Game of Thrones_ , and she was done. She loves him, but he fidgets way too much.  
Marius, on the other hand, sat there and made interesting conversation about Dothraki afterward. This is why she’s dating Marius.

So, now, she’s on her way up her boys' apartment to work on a sneaky holiday gift. She’d made him a Courf blanket for his birthday, but it had gone missing. And now, she’s found the most lovely hairyesther - on sale, no less. 

Skipping the last few steps, she trundles her genius purchase into the elevator, ignoring the person across from her. The button for the fifth floor is already pressed, so she leans up against the wall to wait.

She knows the girl across the elevator from her.  
She fucking knows her.  
Oh God.  
Oh God.  
Oh fucking God.

She looks different. Older. Tired. Not some cute, sleepy, but a bone weary fatigue born of years of nightmares of her own. But, there’s no way the woman across the elevator from her isn’t the same girl she knew all those years ago. The girl whose parents haunt her nightmares.

She knows she looks different. Gone are the frizzy braids that never quite held her hair, first done by a woman whose only experience with curls came from a perm. Gone are the clothes that never quite fit, clothes designed for a girl with thinner shoulders and more height that she had. Gone are the plastic glasses that might be trendy now, but used to just mean that you were poor. Today, the dark curls spiral out from her ponytail. Today, she’s wearing clothes that she designed and sewed and tailored to herself: clothes that fit like they were made for her body, because they were. Today, she has contacts, but the decidedly untrendy wireframe glasses she wears at night are in her purse. She likes them, even though Courf once quietly told her he thought they made her look like an owl. An owl she’ll take. She likes birds.

It takes a few moments of silence except the rumbling of the elevator for the other woman - Eponine - to recognize her. And, she can tell when Eponine does. Her eyes go wide, her mouth opens - Cosette can see the crooked front teeth and a line of metal fillings in the back. And then, her jaw goes slack. Eponine shakes herself. And she goes back to staring at the elevator.

Cosette didn’t know when it happened, but everything has changed. The air catches in her throat, and she’s not sure how it can be icy cold enough in her mouth to take her breath away, and searingly hot down her throat so it can’t be pushed into her lungs and yet she feels nothing on her lips. She doesn’t know when the elevator went from being a comfortable small metal box, to a tight trap. She doesn’t know when things all came spiraling down.

And then, the bell rings, and Cosette feels her stomach lurch. She’s not sure if it’s inside or outside, but the elevator doors open, and both women rush out. 

Inside Courf and Marius’s apartment, Cosette almost faints in relief. Then she wraps herself in Marius, letting him hold her until the shaking stops.

* * *

“Dude, I need a favor.” 

There’s a large man standing on Joly’s doormat dripping what looks like rain water. 

“Umm… what?” Joly leans back on his crutches, using one hand to push his glasses up his nose, and wonders how he lost the game of _Who has to answer the door in Bossuet’s boxers_ this time around. Bossuet always loses. Usually his boxers, and then the game. Except that Bossuet got roped into a 3 am experiment, and he’s sleeping at work tonight. Yet, they’re still playing. 

The man at the door appears to be one of R’s friends, from some kind of martial arts, maybe? ‘Rel? Joly thinks.

“The fuck?” Musichetta’s voice startles both of them.

“Look, I need a favor, can I come in?” The… ‘Rel repeats, stepping toward the door. “Please?”

Joly sighs, and moves out of the way. ‘Rel comes into the darkened apartment. Musichetta flips the lights, the golden glow of Joly’s prefered halogen-pretending-to-be-incandescent bulbs illuminating the room. 

The scene is… not great. Rel is clutching a towel to his arm. Despite the dark brown color, it’s pretty to a trained eye that the towel is bloody. He sinks down unceremoniously onto the wooden floor, his head dropping toward his chest.

“I think I need a doctor,” he explains. “Well, I am a doctor, but like, a real doctor, not like a me doctor.”

It takes Joly a minute to parse this sentence. “I’m not a real doctor. I haven’t finished my internship!”

“You know wha’ a spleen is.” Rel’s face is ghastly pale. “I don’ even know if I have a spleen.”

Joly needs to do something. Despite the pounding in his chest, his voice remains steady. “Musichetta is going to help you to the table.”

Chetta goes over, and helps leaver the big man off the floor. Joly is glad. He could have gotten down and sat with Bahorel, but it seemed like more trouble than it might be worth. Joly has spoons, it’s just that he’s not sure he has spoons to spare. And, tonight… tonight has been his first night off in ages. Except, except looking at the towel around ‘Rels arm, he’s not sure he’s going to avoid the hustle and bustle of the ER after all.

Joly slides into a seat, leaning his crutches against the table. “Can you take a deep breath for me?”

Bahorel nods, face still pale.

“Are you in pain?”

Another nod.

“I need to look at your arm.”

A third nod.

Musichetta settles at the table on the injured man’s other side. “I don’t know if we met before, but I’m Musichetta.”

“Bahorel,” he grinds out. “Felix Bahorel.”

Joly uses this moment of distraction to pull back the towel. “What?” The gasp escapes his lips. “What?”

“What? Fuck.” Musichetta has started to giggle in horror. It’s a habit of hers that she doesn’t actually like. But, involuntary laughter and involuntary crying are part of what make her who she is. “Are those forks?”

“This isn’t humorous,” Bahorel sighs. “Someone got mad, and…” He looks pointed away from Joly, the table, and his arm.

“No, it’s not,” Joly reassures him. “It’s closer to your radius and ulna.”

He pokes at the cutlery, and Bahorel winces. “I’m going to try and pull this out, but first I need to get some supplies.” He pulls himself to his feet, and limps across the kitchen to to the cabinet where they keep a very well stocked first aid kit. The kitchen - the whole apartment really - is set up that there's always something he can grab for support, and so he moves through the space easily.

Musichetta ignores her boyfriend, who is a delight, and a shit, and a nerd. Instead, slips her hand into Bahorel’s, pulling it away from Joly and his injured arm. “Tell me an awesome story,” she commands. 

“Umm.. what?” Bahorel looks confused. Less pale, now that he’s no longer looking at his arm. This is good.

“Tell me an awesome story,” Musichetta repeats. She’s heard Joly and R’s rants on blood draws enough times to know that this is a critical part of distraction. Someone needs to tell an awesome story. “You’re a grad student, right? That’s how you know Grantaire?”

“Uhh, I know Grantaire because of soccer and, AYEYA--What the fuck? Tell a guy before you pull a knife out of his arm!”

Bahorel is loud enough that he probably woke up R. Bahorel is loud enough he probably woke up Irma on the first floor. Hell, Bahorel is loud enough he probably woke up people in apartments three cities away.

“I’m not trying to fork with you, but I think you’re better off not knowing.” Joly placidly applies gauze to the puncture wound. “You and R play soccer?”

“Yeah, R and I play soccer.” Bahorel keeps talking to Musichetta. “Co-ed team. One of the bar leagues, so we get to go out drinking after. ‘Sawesome.” 

In additional playing medic for random late night accidents involving cutlery, R has also introduced Joly to several of her soccer friends. They’re a fun group, easy with a smile and a drink. Of course, R has shamelessly taken advantage of Joly’s tendency to treat wounds put in front of him (and not just cutlery related incidents sometime after the witching hour). And, seriously, Joly has questioned how the soccer team plays: one member is on crutches as often as he uses them, and given that he has a leg he takes off regularly… 

Musichetta sets a mug down in front of Bahorel. “What’s your team name?”

“It’s amazeballs.” Bahorel grins.

Musichetta sighs, and brings over two more mugs. “The name is amazeballs? What is it?”

Joly sighs. He wants to play, but he also wants to get Bahorel’s arm clean and dressed so he can be undressed in bed with Musichetta. “Bahorel, can you come with me to the sink?”

He uses one crutch for support, leading Bahorel the few feet to the tap. He tests it, then holds the other man’s arm underneath while it runs. “The team name is Amazeballs, because R is a shit,” he explains tiredly.

Bahorel grin is distinctly shit eating for someone who just had a fork pulled out of his arm. His color looks better as he continues bantering with Musichetta, and the blood runs into the drain.

Joly leads him back to the table to dry the arm and bandage it. “How much have you had to drink tonight?”

Bahorel shrugs. “Some.” He catches the pill bottle Joly tosses him, underhand. 

“Take two of those, you can sleep on the couch.”

“You know I live up strairs? I almost mistook this for R’s apartment. Was going to apologize when I saw ‘Chetta.” Bahorel gets up to leave.

“No.” Joly gently, but firmly pushes him back down. “You do not get to treat me like your personal emergency room, and then ghost out and way you just live upstairs. We’ve lived in the same building for four months, and this is the first time I’m meeting you.”

Bahorel nods, and flops onto the couch with a grunt. He’s snoring gently before Musichetta and Joly manage to turn off all the lights.

“Here, he’ll come to no more ‘arm.” Joly isn’t sure if its a benediction or a hope, as he falls asleep.

* * *

“What are you doing?”

Jehan looks up from where he’s holding a flyer against the communal bulletin board. Its currently advertising half a dozen things: candles someone’s selling in a pyramid scheme multi-level marketing company, a missing dog, and free tutoring. He just shrugs because it’s hard to answer around a mouth full of push pins.

He turns to smile at the person asking the question - a guy with sandy hair, freckles, and a long face. His grin is probably disconcerting, though, given the four plastic tacks sticking out of his lips. Then, he goes back to putting up his poster. Jehan has put up a lot of flyers over the years, and he’s discovered the best way to handle them is to get them up before his tongue gets curious enough to stick itself with a tack.

“We’re having an open mike night next friday,” he explains once his tongue is safe. “At the Musain.”

The Musain is a community brewery run by a fantastic couple. They serve coffee in the morning, and local beer in the evening and host all sorts of events in their backroom. Thus far, Jehan has been there for no less than five trivia nights, four political meetings, a philosophy lecture, a halloween party held in March. It’s an awesome place.

“An open mike night?” Jehan’s neighbor - he has to be Jehan’s neighbor, because he’s getting the mail. Or else, he’s stealing the mail. A mail thief could be exciting. Well, exciting and obnoxious.

Jehan nods enthusiastically. “Anyone can come perform: music, spoken word, comedy. It will be fun.”

His neighbor considers this. “Anyone?”

“Anyone.” Jehan confirms. He really hope the guy comes, he looks like he could do with a good open mike night. Self expression is important.

Jehan presses a flyer into the guy’s hand. “I hope I’ll see you there.”

The other man jumps back at the brush of skin, but smiles shyly. “Maybe.”

* * *

It’s been the kind of day that makes Sophia Combeferre want to curl up and hide from the world. She’s been in the lab for _hours_ trying to get a single, stupid gel electrophoresis to run so she could send her clone off for sequencing. She’s run thousands of lanes on hundreds of gels, and after the first hundred or so, hasn’t really had a problem. Today... she’d like to chalk today up to bad luck. 

And, then, of course, she hadn’t had the results she needed for her meeting with her boss. And her boss had reminded her that her grant was ending in a few months, and she still hasn’t heard back from any of the places she applied for funding. She was proud of herself, though, after that meeting. She made it back to her office before she started crying. ...Of course, it took her almost an hour to stop.

She has a plan for the evening. She’s going to kick off her shoes, drop her bag in a corner of her room, put on yoga pants, make a cup of tea, and turn herself into a burrito under Courfeyrac’s faux fur blanket. The one she may have worn home a few weeks ago when she, Enjolras, and Courf’s roommate’s girlfriend, Cosette, went over to Courfeyrac and Marius’ place for Stitch ‘n’ Bitch. She was under dressed for the furious run downstairs in the elevator, and so she stole the blanket. Enjolras has taken to referring to it as “Winter is Coming” when he wants to shock the hell out of visitors (not that they have that many). Courfeyrac doesn’t seem to have noticed. 

For now, she just has to get through this bus ride. It’s later than her usual bus, and filled with a different crowd. It’s louder, packed more tightly. The colors are brighter, the odors are stronger, and she can feel every noise echoing inside her head. Being on the bus rubs at an emotional piece that is already abraided. But, she’s a goddamn grown ass adult. And she’s going to hold it together on public transit, because she’s not in enough trouble to be rude. Enjolras, in her head, says this is an unreasonable standard, but the Enjolras in her head is sometimes wrong.

Through some miracle, she makes it home. She fumbles with the key, but manages to make it into the house. And then, just as she planned, Combeferre takes off her shoes, her socks, her jeans, dropping them strategically throughout her bedroom in a process that feels amazing now, but she will probably regret in the morning. She stares longingly at the bathtub for a moment, before shrugging her shoulders and putting in the plug. The warm water makes her feel better.

She’s curled up in front of the tv, finally dry, and dressed in fluffy pants and a massive hooded college sweatshirt that she thinks belongs to Courfeyrac, or maybe the Courfeyrac stole from one of his exes, so Combeferre could steal it from Courf. (She _really_ really likes to steal warm things from Courfeyrac.) She’s safe. She’s warm. She doesn’t have to face another gel, or her boss, for several hours at least. She’s ordered some delivery soup, because damn it, a day like today means that she needs soup.

And then, the doorbell rings. Sophia bolts upright, and dashes across the apartment to the door. She scoops money laid on the side table, and counts again in her head: $3 change for a reasonable tip. Then, she opens the door.

Her neighbor, the one named after the letter: S, V, T? No… anyway, her neighbor with the curly hair and the bright smile is standing there. She holds up a takeout bag. “I think they brought your order to me. Pho, right?”

Sophia stands there in her fluffy pajamas, mismatched wool socks, and too large college sweatshirt and stares at her for a full minute. “Umm, what?”

Neighbor blushes, which some part of Sophia’s brain catalogs as attractive and another part of her brain catalogs as vasodilation under the skin. She sheepishly extends a white plastic bag, a long rip through the printed red rose. “You ordered, takeout, right?”

Sophia nods, because that’s the only reasonable response when an attractive woman is standing at your door with a ripped bag of what you assume to be food.

“I think they fucked up. Cause, like, I got two soups, and you probably got no soup?”

Sophia nods again.

“So, umm…” Neighbor blushes again. “Do you, like, umm… do you want to come over and share the toppings? Because they only sent one?”

There is really only one reasonable response to thing. Combeferre goes back into her room, and pulls on a pair of pants with a button and a sports bra, before stuffing her feet into shoes and following her neighbor next door. The night might be starting to look up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note I do not advocate holding sharp pins of any variety in your mouth.
> 
> There was a 18 month period in my doctoral lab where Monday morning lab meeting started by trying to figure out who had injured them self over the weekend, and what they'd done. I think there were two weeks where no one showed up with an injury, and one included a code sprint where all the soccer players were locked in a house together to write a new computer program. So, yeah. Apologies for Bahorel. ...Also, I have no idea what he did at the bar to provoke being forked, but I somehow suspect a bet was involved.


	3. Shed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you don't teach the kids in your life about musical theater, they'll learn about it from your neighbors.

**Shed** : This is the separation of the warp threads that creates upper and lower warp sets that you pass the weft thread through. Creating a shed between your warp threads speeds up your weaving.

[The Weaving Loom, basic terminology](http://www.theweavingloom.com/what-does-warp-mean-basic-weaving-terminology/)

Bahorel likes the kid who lives in 5A.  
Bahorel thinks the kid who lives in 5A is a little shit. 

Today, he seems to be tapping rhythmically on the ceiling in what might be morse code, or might be gibberish. Last week, someone (the kid in 5A) stole number and letter combinations from specific apartments: 2C, 3A, 4A, 4C, and 5C. On, and there’s the ongoing saga of the WiFi. Someone (5A jr.) has a weird propensity for renaming everyone’s WiFi to whatever suits his fancy. It’s been Pokemon for the past month. Unless its Feuilly doing that one, but Feuilly is too busy studying alignment algorithms and grading papers to remember to eat, let alone change the WiFi name.

Today… Today is the day Bahorel is going to meet the kid in 5A, and confront him about his actions. And maybe introduce him to the exercise equipment in the laundry room, because seriously, that kid is either teaching himself parkour, a tap dancing virtuoso, or more likely, a small herd of elephants masquerading as a child. Which ever the case is, Bahorel would like it to stop long enough to get through one single episode of _The Great British Bake Off_. He desperately needs some Mel and Sue in his life right now. His experiments are working, and he’s getting consistent results, and he’s really not sure how that’s happening.  
Bahorel also wants his damn door letter back. His pizza keeps disappearing. (Although, that again could be Jehan or Feuilly. Probably Jehan.) 

The person who answers the door is … not a kid. She’s shorter than he is, with a no-nonsense expression and a stern set to her jaw. “Yes?”

“The kid who lives here, there is a kid who lives here?” Bahorel _knows_ there’s a kid who lives here.

The woman turns into the apartment. “Gav! The fuck have you been doing?”

5A junior - Gav - slides across the linoleum floor in his socks. He’s coltish - limbs everywhere and hands and feet that are too big for his body. He wears it well. “Nothing, Ep.”

“Bullshit,” Ep interjects. 

Siblings, Bahorel decides. Or maybe an aunt and nephew. They’re too close in age for Ep to be his mother, even though she looks tired. The skin around her eyes isn’t worn enough for her to be older than her 20s, and she’s probably younger.

“Seriously, I haven't been doing anything.” Gav insists.

This… this Bahorel isn’t sure he can let stand. “I’m sorry, but you must have the entire tap routines to Singing in the Rain, Anything Goes, and King of New York memorized because you keep dancing them when I’m trying to analyze data.”

Bahorel is louder than he thinks, because 5D sticks his head out. And Bahorel recognizes 5D. He’s one of R’s friends, they might have worked together to get R and Musichetta moved in. C..., C something. Bahorel thinks might actually have a bright future as a lawyer. Particularly if he keeps the pink streaks in his hair.

“What the fuck?” The pink haired neighbor demands. A girl with dark hair, amazing eyeliner, and a silk bathrobe sticks her head out over his, in an almost cartoon like fashion.

At the same time, the teenager asks a very important question. “What’s King of New York?”

Bahorel and Pink hair share a look of horror and then kinship that can only be explained by the manic need to share cult classics.

Ep sighs, entirely put upon. “Gav, can you please apologize to the nice man and _walk more quietly_? I really am sorry, it’s just, he’s -”

“Apologize for being loud? No, I think the world needs to apologize to him.” Pink hair has emerged from his apartment, shirtless and shoeless, looking affronted. 

Ep looks slightly alarmed.

“Apologize for what?” Gavroche looks curious. “Can the apology look like an xbox?”

“No, the apology is going to look like an opportunity to watch the greatest, most underrated movie musical ever made.” Now, Pink Hair’s voice is rising. 

Ep raises her eyebrow. “Does Russell Crowe sing?”

“No. What do you think we are, Marvel Fans?” Bahorel rises to the bait. “Although, Batman does.”

“Batman?” Gav looks concerned. “I don’t like Ben Affleck.”

“Nah, the old Batman. The true Batman from the late 90s and early aughts: Christian Bale,” Bahorel explains. 

The boy considers this pronouncement, face twisted. “Maybe. Heath Ledger’s joker was awesome - creepy as fuck. But, Batman?” 

“You won’t regret it,” Bahorel finds himself promising.

* * *

Enjolras has been friends with Courfeyrac since they were children. They met in elementary school, when Courf was a wild eyed wildling, and Enjolras was trying to figure out how to talk with his peers. Eight year old Courfeyrac had plopped down next to Enjolras with a sigh, and asked if he wanted half a peanut butter sandwich. 

In their twenty years of friendship, Courf has come up with several madcap plans.  
Enjolras remembers several years of running around Courf’s house wearing painting goggles, spangled “armor”, and carrying six shooter rubber band guns.  
In middle school, Courf had supported his agenda to start a club protesting “backward, misogynistic practices within the school community”, including the exclusion of girls from the football and wrestling team. Since there weren’t actually that many girls interested in football and wrestling, it didn’t seem to matter.  
When they were sixteen, Enjolras was the campaign manager behind Courf’s run for school president. It was only by the grace of well… it was really a lucky streak that Enjolras managed to talk Courf out of making locks for the bathrooms one of his campaign promises. But, with Courf as school president and Enjolras as the editor and chief of the school newspaper, they were able to make meaningful changes at the school. Or, at least, make the administration crazy.

This building is the first time they’ve lived near each other since they parted ways the summer before college. Enjolras went for psychology and political science at a small private school, and Courf ended up at the big university close to home. And, now that Courf is in law school, trying to follow in a family tradition. He’s surprisingly good. Then again, Courf has always been good at people and talking. And, Enjolras is here, living with Combeferre, and working on a PhD in Economics so he can help implement equitable economic policy.

So, given this long history, Enjolras thinks he’s justified in his response. “That’s not the point. This is the most ridiculous thing you’ve suggested, ever.”

“What’s more ridiculous?” Combeferre asks as she drops her bag. Enjolras hadn’t heard the door open, probably because of his disagreement with child ~~hood~~ friend.

“Whether it was worse to declare our debate opponents losers because they weren’t human, or whether it’s more ridiculous to ask if I can invite people over to watch a movie here because you have Netflix and that big TV?” Courf supplies.

“Your debate opponents weren’t human?” Combeferre is well adapted at following Courf tangents. 

Courf shrugs, philosophically. “They were fourteen. Is any fourteen year old really human? Or, is it during a collective period in our lives where we are overtaken by aliens.”

“Also, I’m pretty sure we won because they dropped the rebuttal about ecological impacts.” Enjolras feels the need to explain, even though they’ve been out of his school for more than twice the time they were in high school, and it doesn’t really matter.

“And because they weren’t human.” Combeferre has an infectious grin, when she wants to. 

She’s kinder, more honest, than either Courfeyrac or Enjolras, and she’s someone Enjolras never realized he, until they met at a dorm mixer in college.

“Okay, but you haven’t answered the key question. Can we come here to watch a movie? With the neighbors?” Courf reigns in the tangent, which is impressive. Or maybe, now that Courf’s brain is done with this particular debate distraction, he can come back to the real problem. Enjolras is never quite sure how Courf works. He just knows that he’s damn smart and works damn hard, and if anyone says anything about Courf’s ADHD hindering him, Enjolras will punch them.

Combeferre shrugs. Or maybe, she shrugs out of her coat. She drapes the garment across the back of the couch.

“Bahorel said he’d invite his friend, R.” Courf plays the card. Enjolras thinks it’s dirty pool.

Combeferre is normally reserved. She doesn’t get crushes. At least, she doesn’t get crushes often. And sure, there are people like Kate McKinnon and Logan Browning and Lupita Nyong’o, but everyone has celebrity crushes.  
She hasn’t been able to stop talking about R, the girl in apartment 3C. And, Courf knows.

“Sophia,” Courf whines. “Sophia, Alex, it could be fun…”

Enjolras suspects abstract algebra might also be fun, for the right people under the right circumstances. He’s not an abstract algebra guy. Still, Combeferre looks too excited for them not to host.

It’s also worth the 8 smiley faces and two movie emojis Courf sends in response to the calendar invite.

* * *

“You want me to _what?_ Gantaire lets her mouth hang open. She hits the speed bag with more furiosity than she needs to, but it feels good.

“I want to you to teach the kid upstairs the choreography to King of New York,” Bahorel repeats placidly, like it is the most reasonable thing in the world. Or at least, a reasonable thing to ask someone. 

R scrubs her glove over her face. “You want me to teach the kid upstairs the choreography from King of New York? The original version, or the broadway one?”

“Bring your gloves down!” Bahorel directs. “Broadway. It’s on Netflix. And, Courf has a friend who has a Netflix password. Or who has someone’s Netflix password?”

It’s clear to R that Bahorel believes he’s making a reasonable request. It’s not clear to R if Bahorel has ever actually watched _Newsies_ before.

R has. Because R is Broadway trash. R also might have an itsy-bitsy crush on Jeremy Jordan, who plays the male lead. And on Kara Lindsay, the female lead. And, like, yeah, maybe she’s too old to like a musical about newsboys in the 1890’s, but there were weirder things to be interested in.

“Do you know if the kid actually likes tap dancing?” R figures this is another pertinent question.

Bahorel shrugs, and puts up his fists. R picks up his abandoned jump rope, and starts her two minute reps. “I think the kid must like tap dancing, since I can hear every move he makes.”

“So, this is defensive?” That she can understand. 

R has done all sorts of things in defensive ways. Some she’s proud of, like the time that she worked ahead on the posters for the boxing gym’s charity match, so they were ready when someone asked her. And, some she’s not so proud of, like the times she’s apprehended delivery people attempting to drop food at 4C so she could eat with Sophia.

“Yep.” Bahorel pops the “p”. “That, and Courf owes me five dollars if you do.”

“You owe me fifty dollars if I do,” she counters. Because, seriously, that is complex choreography. And, it’s not like the videos actually focus on people’s feet. “How long would I have?”

Bahorel grins, and R’s stomach drops. Because as much as she loves Bahorel, and he is her boxing buddy and her drinking buddy, and like, a general all around good guy, Bahorel grinning can sometimes mean bad things. The last time Bahorel got that expression, they got arrested in the process of getting University policy changes. The fact that the policy was stupid was irrelevant when R had to call for bail money. Not that Bubbe’s in the retirement home, R can’t ask her grandmother to bail her out. (That was a bad phone call.) R isn’t sure who would bail her out this time… maybe Bossuet. He’s a good guy.

“I was thinking next Saturday. For the movie.” Bahorel continues blythely hitting the bag, as though he hasn’t said anything unreasonable.

“What the fuck, Felix?” R stops jumping. “What the fuck?”

The gym stops and looks at her. She may have spoken too loudly. “‘Sokay. Just… umm. Its okay.”

“You want me to learn the choreography from a Broadway cast and recreate it in the next two weeks?” She manages to be quieter this time. “One of the more dance intensive Broadway shows.”

Bahorel shakes his head. “Nope, I want you - you and Musichetta, and Joly and Bossut - to come watch the movie with us. And then, you can have a talk with kid in 5A. Did you know there’s a kid in 5A? I think he likes to tap dancing and steal shit. He’s like a Jason Maraz album.”

“Umm… Sounds okay? But, like, don’t expect me to get up there and dance along. Because it’s hard choreography. And like a goddamn Broadway right of passage.”

Bahorel raises his eyebrows. “I thought you were awesome.”

“I’m not that awesome!” Grantaire says quickly, interrupting his thoughts. Then, she goes across the gym to see if she can find someone to spar against who is closer to her weight class.

Bahorel stares after her, shaking his head. They’ve had this disagreement before. R is more talented than she gives herself credit for, with the dancing, the boxing, the yoga, the graphic design, and the coffee shop. He just wishes she saw it. After practice is over, he’ll take her out for a drink and apologize. It will be okay.

* * *

Eponine isn’t sure this thing is a good idea. For one, it means spending time with virtual strangers. Eponine doesn’t really do strangers. Actually, Eponine doesn’t do strangers that she needs to spend more time with in the future. She spent enough years working with her parents, and then working with retail (upselling is just another con, in her book). She’d come home drained, every last ounce of what she had sucked out of her. And then, she’d take care of her brother and her sister.

So, Eponine isn’t sure she can do this. Most of the neighbors seem nice. There’s the guy who came by, B something, on the fourth floor. He’s got at least two roommate - the funny ginger one and an eastern European guy. Gavroche had dragged her to their open mike night at the Musain. Even though bongo drums aren’t really her taste, she had enjoyed herself. But, that should have been a one and done. Instead, now, they want to get together and watch movie musicals? This is only one step from animated movies. And, Eponine is loathe to admit that at her age, she’s never actually watched that many Disney movies. Her parents weren’t really Disney movie people when she was a kid. More _Jurassic Park_ and _Nightmare on Elm Street_.

Others, well, she’d seem them in the lobby: shiny people living in shiny apartments. There’s the blonde, so pretty she wonders if he models. There’s the doctor, and his friends, down on the third floor. And, there’s R, who maybe isn’t shiny anymore, but has this glow to her. R, is well… she and Eponine are friendly, but R is friendly with everyone. She’s bombastic, and intense, and too much. Eponine doesn’t belong in that group. She didn’t have any shine now, if she’d ever had it at all. No, Eponine Thenardier is sandstone: soft, layered, and built under pressure. 

And, there’s the girl down the hall. Ep remembers her. Ep knows her. Ep doesn’t want to remember, because remembering means admitting who she was, and what she lost. It means admitting that Cosette won a game that shouldn’t have been a competition. Cosette got rescued by a man (a father?) who wanted her. Cosette didn’t watch her life spiral down the drain. Cosette has The Boy. ...The Boy who seems gentle and a little bit afraid, and oh, sometimes, she talks to Marius Pontmercy. She’d trail him, if she could. But, he’d already found Cosette by the time she found him, and as much as she wants that girl to be her, she can’t let herself be the person who breaks them apart.

And so, she has to decide. She can say no. She’s Gavroche’s guardian, legally, and in every way that counts. (Not that Gavroche has ever needed to be guarded. The kid is an oxymoron of careful daring.) She could just say no. 

Except… except that she wants something better for Gav and Azelma. She wants to give them the chance to become Shiny People, if such a thing is still possible. And, if they’re going to do that, they need role models. And, if she could be the one to call child protective services on her parents when she was fifteen, if she could be the one who worked multiple jobs to pay her way, if she could be the woman who found a way to get custody of her siblings at seventeen, then, she’s a woman who can sit through a two hour movie with some weird neighbors for the sake of her siblings.

* * *

The night of The Movie, Bossuet is running late. This is not abnormal for Bossuet, just another part of his bad luck. He leaves on time, early even. He tries to account for all the possible possibilities, but well… life seems to get the best of him. 

Today, for instance, he’d called ahead for the pizza. Like, used his phone to call ahead. They’d promised him it would be on time. And then, two delayed busses, a run in with a squirrel, and a brief detour through the grocery store because Joly wanted gluten free pretzels later, and the pizzas still weren’t ready. This was… well, not typical, because Musichetta usually bought pizza to avoid just this kind of string of events. But, it was the summary of Bossuet’s life: both unfortunate, and yet, kind of funny. He wonders if he can make it into a stand up routine, if he ever makes it to the Open Mike nights at the Musain he keeps seeing advertised on the laundry room bulletin board.

As a consequence, he assumes that he’ll be the last person to arrive. He checks the apartment anyway, because Joly doesn’t like to show up to things alone. Joly is fine, once he has someone to go with. He’s bright, and cheerful, and funny, and Bossuet, thinks he’d be fine on his own. The problem is that Joly hasn’t quite decided it yet. It’s okay with Bossuet, though. It just means that he gets to spend more time with his amazing boyfriend.

The apartment is empty, though, and so Bossuet gathers up his pizzas, and proceeds to 4D. He shifts the pizzas one arm (dangerous) as he knocks on the door. In an almost predictable series of nearly slapstick responses, the pizza slips as the door opens. 

Musichetta is there, ready to catch them though. “Pizza? Yes cheese, Bossuet!” She leans in to kiss him on the cheek.

He smile back at his awesome girlfriend. “I’m sorry I’m late. I got… held up. I hope you didn’t pineapple to hard for me.”

R comes over, carrying a glass of what is probably whiskey. R has a knack for putting whiskey in unlikely places. He steals a sip. Yep, whiskey and coke. He really hopes… but, she’s an adult, and as much as he worries, she can make her own bad choices.

“Well, come in before you get pepperoni-ed with kisses. You need to meet everyone, and you’ll shock the kid.” R grabs his hand (and her cup) and pulls him back into the apartment.

Bossuet notices a young teenager in the corner, drinking soda and talking animatedly to his law school classmate, Courfeyrac. The kid seems to have them enthralled, which is good, because it means Courf gets a taste of his own medicine. 

He follows Musichetta into the kitchen, where the solid round wooden table is covered in offerings. His pizza joins chips, pretzels, a big salad, and a plate of vegetables. There’s a pair of coolers in the corner. 

Bahorel, one of R’s boxing friends, turns to the room. “We’re all here?”

There’s a general murmur of assent.

“Good, let’s start the movie!”

Bossuet settles himself on the floor, leaning into the couch between Joly and Musichetta’s legs. The kid, and a girl who has to be his older sister, have occupied an armchair in one corner, and the blond who lives in the apartment has settled in the other. Courf lay in his lap for a minute, before the blond pushed him off with a chuckle. But, Bossuet is most interested in the fact that R and the girl who lives here - Sophia based on R’s repeated mentions - curl up together on the other end of the couch. Bahorel shrugs, and plops down between the two couples.

The title opens with a lone trumpet, playing an almost mournful refrain, then bursting into a fanfare. The curtain (and Bossuet’s not sure why there’s a curtain on a movie) rises, and the lighting adjusts itself to open on a New York skyline.

They get less than five minutes into the movie before the blond starts to comment. “So, this is a musical about the relationship between two best friends who want to run away to be gay cowboys?”

“Aren’t cowboys like, inherently gay?” One of the boys on the floor, the one who runs the Open Mike nights, asks. “I mean, have you read cowboy poetry?”

The discussion of Cowboy poetry mixes with a song about the fine life carrying the banner. R is one of the loudest voices, along with the blond. They seem to know each other, but sit in an uneasy truce.

“Shut up, and watch.” Courf throws pillows at the heads of debaters. “Or, go in the kitchen with the people who don’t like fun.”

“This is fun,” Enjolras complains, but he quiets down. 

Bossuet notices that gravity seems to get stronger as the movie continues. By the time the Newsies have declared their strike with a flourish of pointed toes, Bahorel, Courf, R and Sophia have migrated to the floor, and cuddled into a furry blanket.

(“Hey! That’s mine!” Courf complains, curling into the blanket.

“Shut up, I’m listening to the too pretty, too white, too talented newsboys talk about revolution.”)

The pile breaks up as the newsies gather in the restaurant. R and the kid, Gavroche, are in the corner, dancing. Despite the grumbling protests, she’s been watching the choreography, and she has worked out a decent portion of the female reporter’s solo, including the split. The kid has the sense not to try the splits. Bossuet did, once, and only once, before he determined that even men with good luck had issues with the splits. 

He’s proud of R, though. He knows R likes to pretend she doesn’t care. He also knows that couldn’t be further from the trust. He just wishes he could convince her.

After that number, they settle back into the kind of tangle of limbs that’s nearly impossible to undo. Bossuet isn’t sure how that’s happened, given that they’ve just met, but the group fits. Except, that before R can even settle in, her phone trills in a way that haunts Bossuet. He knows that sound. Joly and Musichetta spring apart, Combeferre jumps to her feet, pausing the movie, and a blush colors R’s cheeks. 

They start the movie again, resettling into each other, and the story. 

(“What kind of ableist bullshit is this? First they beat the disabled kid with his mobility aid, and then they lock him up for the entire second act, except for the part where they treat him as inspiration?”)

At the end, when the newsboys have won and the hero has decided to stay, Bossuet smiles to himself. They untangle from the pile on the floor: Courf laying across Jehan, and Bahorel cuddling against R, who is still holding onto Combeferre. Even Gavroche’s older sister, Eponine, has a smile on her face.

They make a plan to get together to watch another musical.


	4. Shuttle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How do you measure a year?

**Shuttle** : A shuttle is a tool designed to neatly and compactly store a holder that carries the thread of the weft yarn while weavingwith a loom. Shuttles are thrown or passed back and forth through the shed, between the yarn threads of the warp in order to weave in the weft.

[”Shuttle (Weaving)”, _Wikipedia_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shuttle_\(weaving\))

* * *

Given the way the occupants of the apartments seem to find themselves spending time together, maybe it’s not a surprise that they come together to welcome 2018. They’ve lived together for more than a year. Since that first movie night, where Enjolras couldn’t shut up and they all ended up in a pile on the floor, they’ve started hanging out more. 

Cosette and Courf drag Marius to the Open Mike nights, and once in awhile, they get him to play the piano. He has long classical fingers, and a rich tenor voice. He’s amazing, when he forgets himself. And, at the end, Jehan and Feuilly cheer more loudly than anyone else in the bar, except maybe Courfeyrac. Cosette tries snapping, trying to be cool, but in the end, she whistles over the rest of them, proud of her boyfriend. The praise often carries them home, where she and her boys fall into bed together.

Gavroche’s obsession with musicals has only grown, after _Newsies_. The kid doesn’t necessarily want to go to Broadway, but Eponine makes him dance twice a week anyway. Actually, R gets him into the classes, using her teaching discount and lying. And then, she takes him to the boxing gym, and Bahorel has to teach him to box. Eponine doesn’t know how to say thank you, because it makes it so much easier to be parent and older sister to a rambunctious teenage boy when said teenage boy isn’t climbing up her walls. Especially when both Bahorel and R tell him Gavroche he has to _stay in school_ if he wants to keep up with them. Bahorel holds his PhD quietly, as something to aspire, rather than as a weapon. But, when he pulls out the “doctor card”, Gavroche stops to listen.

Joly and Combeferre end up being one of the first pairs of graduate students and medical residents to set up a collaboration in their department. Their focus is on differences in cellular age and cellular stress based on an interaction between poverty and chronic disease. They spend long nights at Joly and Bossuet’s kitchen table, pouring over scientific papers, sketching out experiments, and writing their grant. At the end of the night, Joly limps into his bedroom, where he curls up into the comforting arms of his two lovers. Combeferre slides out, to slip unseen into the apartment next door, and coax her girlfriend into bed. Whether or not she kicks Grantaire out in the middle of the night depends entirely on how low Grantaire’s blood sugar ends up. It takes time, but eventually, Combeferre finds an uneasy truce between herself, her girlfriend, and the way her girlfriend’s depression manages her diabetes.

Combeferre also enjoys watching the uneasy truce between R and Enjolras. The two of them seem to get into philosophical arguments purely for the sake of arguing. Enjolras makes a statement, and Grantaire fires back, for the sake of being contrary. Or at least, that’s what Combeferre thinks at first. And then, she starts to wonder if maybe, Grantaire isn’t questioning herself. The terrible furisoity that is Enjolras can have that effect on people: simutaneously annoying, confusing, and enlightening. Combeferre can’t decide if they’re friends, adversaries, or something else. And, she doesn’t entirely care, as long as they can keep their arguments from interrupting the _Gilmore Girls_ marathon she sometimes has with Bahorel, Eponine, and Musichetta. 

And so, on the last night of the year, they trudge the short distance from their warm apartment to the Musain. The icy air nips at their noses, and the gray, icy sleet leaves the pavement cold enough that they can feel it through their boots, but the cafe is warm and inviting. Jehan and R charmed the bartender into letting them use the back room, promising good behavior and that no one would dance on the tables without permission. Madame Hucheloup shakes her head with the resignation of a woman who knows that by the end of the night, she will have given permission for people to dance on her tables. (She will last until after midnight, which everyone will consider a win.)

Combeferre sits between R and Enjolras, smiling across the table at Jehan, as they animatedly describe research on Byron’s diary. Jehan is a bit obsessed with Byron. And Mary Shelley. And Frankenstein. And what happens when you stick a bunch of artistic polyamorous friends together at a summer home with no work to do, other than leisurely discuss life. She wonders if Jehan is aware how close he is to that reality, and questions whether the idea has worked its way into the thesis.

Down the table, Joly, Bossuet, Musichetta, and R bounce words back and forth off each other in a never ending linguistic game. Bahorel leans over, quietly explaining some of the jokes to Feuilly. He surprises the rest of them by cutting in with his own pun, joining in.

She’s glad to see him happy. It’s been a hard year for many, including Feuilly. He watched the visa proceedings carefully, waiting for someone to tell him it was time to leave. The worst was when the University advised Feuilly, and anyone else not American, Canadian, British, or a few other nationalities, that they shouldn’t leave the country. 

It’s been hard to watch Enjolras struggle to decide where his heart lies, too. Given his arrest record, law school wasn’t actually an option. (She has a few arrests of her own, for the same protests, but Combeferre never wanted to be a doctor. And, somehow, she managed to convince at least one school to overlook a misdemeanor or two on her record.) He started marching again, this year. First, joining her at the women’s march, where he spent more time listening than ever before. Then, the Science March, the healthcare debate, the… the list went on and on. And, finally, Enjolras had to face the question of whether his activism was getting in the way of his job, or his job was getting in the way of his activism. Combeferre was there, that night they talked about whether or not he should leave his position, and take a job as a community organizer. She, Courf, and all their neighbors were there when he defended his master’s thesis. And, they celebrated again, two weeks later, when he’d gotten a new job as a community organizer with a union.

But, as she raises her glass, and they count down toward the new year, Combeferre makes a series of quiet wishes. First, she hopes that Gavroche, who is leading the toast, is drinking cider. There are lots of bottles in the corner, and a few have been opened. Courf, Marius, and Cosette don’t drink at all, and Joly oscillates, and so, there’s always something there. She hopes 2018 will bring them all good things, and new adventures. She hopes that when they come together this time next year, none of them will be the same people who are sitting around the table today. And, she hopes more than anything, they’ll all be here, together.


End file.
